


All He Ever Wanted

by tinknevertalks



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, It's not a happy shippy fic, Jack is not a nice person, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Montague John Druitt/Helen Magnus (background), oxford era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 16:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18595048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinknevertalks/pseuds/tinknevertalks
Summary: A snapshot of John during the Ripper period.





	All He Ever Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have no idea where this came from, but it isn't a happy fic (it's a Bad Things Happen Bingo fic, of course it isn't happy). And I don't know how up to date you are with Jack the Ripper news, but seeing as _Sanctuary_ is a world unto itself, I've only used the canonical five victims wise. (Seriously, the BBC had a great documentary a few weeks ago that was worth the watch.)
> 
> Anyways, unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine (if you catch any, please let me know).
> 
> A Bad Things Happen Bingo fic, using the _Grabbed by the hair_ prompt. Let me know what you think. :)

The riot of curls she normally kept fastidiously pinned in place taunted him every time they stepped out together. Their courting kept him treading the finest of lines, attempting a balancing act that would awe the most experienced of tightrope walkers. How often had he dreamt of caressing those curls, marvelling at the texture between his fingertips? 

(The whores of Whitechapel have curls, but none as bewitching, or as lustrous, or as perfect, as Helen's.)

And her skin? So unblemished, untainted, just pliant and naive and waiting for his experienced hands. How he longed to touch her freely, as man and wife would, not hidden in the dark recesses of corridors, stealing moments like thieves and cowards. He could barely keep from holding her hand every moment of the day, wanting to hold her close for all eternity.

(He first educates himself with a girl called Mary. Helen had rebuffed him after her late birthday dinner, so he searches for someone else. He knows Mary's type, wanting to succeed, to please, to be paid for her experience. He pays her well, slitting her throat for the trouble, silencing her forever.)

He wanted to keep her safe from the horrors in the world, or as much as he could, considering her work. They'd be married, and she could help the misfortunate in a hospital as he worked with the upper class. He'd support them both. Then, after a year or so, she would leave the hospital to raise their children. They’d have two boys who'd grow to be as tall as he, and a girl child as delicate as her mother. They'd be happy and fruitful.

(James mentions the viciousness of the attacks. “It is as if he wishes to strip them of all femininity,” he tells him over brandy at the club.

“Maybe he's angry at one woman,” John supposes, “and cannot act on that feeling with the one eliciting it?”

James barely moves, only to swirl his brandy in its glass. “Could it be so simple?”)

Sonnets were there to be written, and John flowed with iambic verse for her. Her smile could light a thousand candles instantly, brighten any room she entered. Her voice, so soft and melodious, was created to read those lines, to bring a flush to her cheeks. He wanted, so desperately, for her only to smile at him, rather than share her delight with their colleagues. How could she smile so openly at Tesla, laugh so brightly with Griffin?

(He dreams, often, of grabbing her by those golden curls, placed upon her head like a gift from the Lord Himself. His fingers are tangled in those soft tresses, her hands on his as she tries to bat him away. He drags her through their house, flings her to the bed, wrestles her into compliance-- wakes, alone, in a sweat. He tries to forget, but sees her smile, and there's that demon again, talking in his ear, telling him all the depraved things he should do to her, to any whore he could lay his hands on.)

It’s a blessing, John thinks, when she shoots him. 

(Jack knows she should've aimed better, but she didn't have it in her to kill him in cold blood. She and John were similar: weak and pliant. They were nothing like Jack.)

\--

(Imagine his surprise, eleven years later, to feel his blade against his throat as Helen, dark and vengeful, crushes herself against him. Jack has a worthy adversary, after all.)


End file.
